


The Toymaker of Winter Hill

by Thorinsmut, werpiper



Series: Winter Hill [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Anonymous Sex, Casual Sex, Complete, Crime, Cuddles, Explicit Consent, Kissing, M/M, Multilingual Characters, One Shot, Polyamory, Prohibition AU, Sign Language, Smuggling, Wrestling, contract-writing as foreplay, gangsters au, genital piercings, lol what is canon, sometimes you have to smush the Stronk Boys together, them's the rules, tipsy sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-19 04:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22738996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorinsmut/pseuds/Thorinsmut, https://archiveofourown.org/users/werpiper/pseuds/werpiper
Summary: Dwalin was proud that, out of all their many cousins, Fili trustedhimto provide guidance as he commissioned a gift for his mother as he came of age.The toymaker he chose to commission was strangely familiar, though, and seemed to recognize Dwalin, but for the life of him Dwalin couldn't place him...Winter Hill – A Prohibition AU
Relationships: Dwalin & Fíli, Dwalin/Bifur, minor Bifur/Lari (oc)
Series: Winter Hill [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1634950
Comments: 22
Kudos: 38





	The Toymaker of Winter Hill

**Author's Note:**

> From Thorinsmut: I have been a very big fan of this AU ever since I visited Piper in Boston and we spent a great deal of time walking up and down Winter Hill itself while Piper laid out the broad strokes and then happily headcanoned with me all about all the various characters. None of it was written, at the time, and I am so lucky Piper decided to commission me to write a short set in it!  
> Most of the 'present' sections are mine, while Piper wrote the majority of the 'past' section, and provided a truly stellar rewrite to keep the style and language consistent throughout. It would never have come out so beautifully if I was writing it alone!  
> It is my hope that this AU charms you the reader just as much as it does me!  
> <3  
> TS
> 
> From Piper: We walked over Winter Hill to drink honey wine. We talked history. We made stuff up. Et voila.

"This one, this is the place!"

Fili bounced on ahead of Dwalin, full of youthful energy, to show him the unassuming door of a cheerful toy shop. The work on display in the window was well-crafted enough to impress at first look, but it was _toys_ , which gave Dwalin a moment’s pause. Fili glanced back at him, grinning, cheeks red from the cold and very faintly stubbled with gold; this didn’t reassure Dwalin as to Fili’s presumed new maturity, either. Meanwhile Winter Hill was living up to its name, an icy wind blowing between the buildings. Dwalin would be glad to be out of it for a few minutes even if they needed to go somewhere else to find what they were looking for. He nodded as Fili reached for the door.

Dwalin wasn't accompanying Fili _only_ because it was impolitic for Thorin's heir presumptive to be out on the town unguarded. There was not much threatening the lad in broad daylight--Mannish gangs were hardly clever enough to make a serious attempt at any time, and dwarves would be wary of passers-by and police. Dwalin was also there to provide gentle guidance, if needed. He was honored that, out of all their many cousins, Fili trusted him in this.

Small silver bells chimed harmoniously above as they entered the shop, Fili leading and Dwalin close behind with a dutiful eye out for threats. An elderly Bubbe stood in the foyer, looking straight from the old country, with a sturdy cane in one hand and a brightly wrapped package under her other arm.

Fili stepped sharply aside with a polite, " _Madam_ ," which made her smile and Dwalin proud. He held the door for her, and they nodded to each other as she passed out into the cold.

The inside of the shop was filled with jewel-bright stuffed creatures, elaborately animated mechanical works, intricate mind-teaser puzzles, and many other playthings. Somehow the variety all showed the sign of a single crafter’s hands. Fili cast one longing glance over the toys, then led Dwalin further into the store.

"Over here, see?" Fili went unerringly to a glass-fronted display case in the left rear, knelt down, and pointed. Inside were examples of another type of work—as intricate and beautiful as the toys had been, the jewelry boxes and music boxes and ornate hand-mirrors were clearly made for a more discriminating audience.

There was bronze shined as bright as gold, and exquisite silverwork, and even true gold worked with elegant simplicity. There was enamel worked into strange patterns like opals, colored glass cut and set with such skill it did not need to pretend to be any other material, and gemstones cut in the old-country style, displaying uniqueness and clarity above mere symmetry or glitter. Every line and color matched the finest work Dwalin had seen in the old country or the new. It was perfect.

Dwalin smiled at Fili, affectionately resting a hand on his shoulder (narrow, yet, but with a new solidity that gave sign of the fine adult he was growing to be). "You have a good eye," he said, and Fili beamed.

"My favorite is the egg." Fili pointed, and Dwalin hunkered down beside him to get a better look. It was a delicate green-enamel orb with silver filigree, constructed from six perfect petals so it could open like a flower. Three of the petals were down, displaying the mirrored interior that reflected light onto the tiny bluebird in the middle—its little breast puffed up and mouth open in song—so real, you'd almost expect to hear it.

"Beautiful," Dwalin agreed. He wanted to meet the person who could make a thing like that.

As if in answer, the door to the back room opened, and a stout person in a thick leather apron stepped through with a dainty dolly cradled in his broad workman's hands. Dwalin and Fili stood up in unison. He was handsome, nearly as tall as Dwalin, with a striking mane of black-and-white hair and a full thick beard. He'd even sorted his beard out into strands of pure black and white for his few braids, showing dedication to his appearance in a way only a gentleman of the old country would. His forehead was dominated by a knotted scar which looked to Dwalin like someone had broken a bottle there, above eyes that were bottle-glass green, squinting and fierce.

Then he smiled, big and bright, and transformed into the least intimidating person in the world. "Welcome!" he greeted in Khuzdul, voice rough and warm. "One moment."

There was something about him... Dwalin's brow furrowed as he watched him carefully place the dolly in an empty space on a shelf. He seemed oddly familiar, something in the sound of his voice or the shape of his shoulders? Dwalin wasn't sure. Certainly he'd have remembered such distinctive looks if he'd actually met the fellow before.

The care he took with positioning the dolly—her pretty embroidered skirts spread _just so_ , her little hand balancing her on the shelf—left Dwalin with no doubt that he was the craftsperson behind all the beautiful pieces in the shop. Such exacting precision in every detail, with a child's dolly as much as a jeweled bird-in-an-egg fancy, was uncommon to say the least. There was something about that, too, strong weathered hands with a delicate touch, that seemed familiar.

The toymaker adjusted a tin soldier on his way past, and returned to them, favoring them with another smile. "Welcome, sirs. How can I help?" he asked. "You speak the tongue of the old country, yes?" Without waiting for an answer he added, somewhat clumsily in English. "No English."

"We do," Fili answered, and then glanced up toward Dwalin as if expecting him to take over.

Dwalin shook his head and gestured Fili forward, speaking in Khuzdul as well: "Go on, lad. It's your show."

The craftsman's eyebrows went up, and his green eyes absolutely twinkled at Dwalin.

Fili squared himself, taking a deep breath, and the craftsman's attention returned to him as soon as he began speaking, ritual words measured and firm. "Master Bifur, I am Fili son of Dis. I wish to commission a gift for my bearer as I come of age."

"Ah," the craftsman—Bifur—put his hand over his heart as Fili spoke, expression soft and fond. He did seem genuinely touched as he gave the ritual response. "I am honored that you would think of me in this important time. Come, come." He gestured them toward the back room. "We will negotiate in private, young Fili and..." Bifur glanced at Dwalin, leaving space for Fili to offer his companion’s name.

“Dwalin son of Fundin, my cousin," Fili provided. "Thank you."

"Dwalin," Bifur repeated as he ushered them through the door, and he gave Dwalin that twinkling look again—like he _knew_ Dwalin, or something about him.

That was not uncommon. A lot of people knew Dwalin—he had worked to earn a substantial reputation. Being Thorin's right hand and most trusted enforcer wasn't an inconspicuous position, and being recognized often saved considerable time. The disconcerting part was that Bifur continued to seem familiar himself, and for the life of him Dwalin couldn't place him.

Bifur saw them past a set of stairs that must lead up to the family apartments, pausing briefly to call 'Lari' to tend the front as he had clients, and then on to a comfortable little office that was very warm with a small stove in the corner.

Fili and Dwalin shed their heavy coats, and Dwalin held back a moment with Bifur as he hung them on a neat row of pegs, letting Fili go ahead to place his sketches and plans on Bifur's desk. There was only a brief moment where Fili was distracted, and Dwalin took full advantage. He brushed his hand into Bifur's, briskly signing into his palm with the touch version of Iglishmek, < _Have we met?_ >

Bifur smiled, syrup-slow and wicked. Dwalin halfway-knew the answer, in the feel of Bifur's strong careful hand turning in his to sign back, before he answered with a single word. < _Salem._ >

< _Fruit of the vine,_ > Dwalin signed, recognizing him all at once. Bifur’s looks and voice might be distinctive, but _nobody_ else touch-signed like that.

There was no more time for discreet conversations—Fili had arranged his folder to his liking, and glanced back. Bifur moved smoothly away from Dwalin to inspect it, leaving him with one lascivious stroke to his fingers that had no translation in words but needed none to be understood entirely. It sent a shiver of heat and want all the way through Dwalin's body.

* * *

Salem.

It had been dark in the smuggler's cave. Dwalin wasn’t a mule by a long shot, but he’d been in the northern port to drum up support for an old country festival down on Winter Hill when he’d heard of the shipwreck, the salvage, and the prize. He’d money enough to pay for the information, but the dirty work was best done by himself; he could shoulder two barrels alone. He’d crept in at low tide, but the seawater swamped his flashlight anyway--not that it mattered, he was dwarf enough to find his way by stone-sense when a big person would have been lost and likely drowned. So it was a terrible surprise when, knee deep in water and half under a barrel, somebody jumped him.

He landed on hands and knees, splashing and gasping, and the barrels nearly crushed him as they rolled loose in the surf. Dwalin fought back, of course. He had no weapons—dwarves didn’t carry guns everywhere as Mannish people did; they were more civilized than that. His pocket knife hardly counted, and he had no chance to get it out in any case. The attacker was behind and upon him, one arm around Dwalin’s throat, and it took all of Dwalin’s strength to pitch forward. He got free of the chokehold, but somehow the attacker landed on his feet. He must be shorter than most Men; Dwalin had expected to lay him flat.

Dwalin leapt upon him, trying for the same choke, but his arms were seized and hauled forwards so he was carried like a child riding piggyback. He felt a moment of strange delight at being lifted, face falling forward into thick, rough wet hair; for a moment he wanted to nuzzle through and lick the salty skin beneath. He kicked instead, and they fell sideways together, landing with a splash. Dwalin drew in a lungful of salt water, choked and spat; his opponent seemed stunned long enough to wait that out before Dwalin could jump him again. For a few long moments they grappled, strength against strength, and if it weren’t so cold and wet and desperately criminal, Dwalin would have found it a pleasure. Then his attacker slammed a knee into Dwalin’s kidney, and in shock and pain he shoved them as far as he could apart.

The water splashed up to his chest with the attacker’s quick return, so Dwalin threw a punch in the dark. It landed hard against a firm gut, and he heard the attacker’s breath hiss out: “Mahal--!”

Dwalin started laughing, hysterically and helplessly. This was no Man at all, but another dwarf! Whoever it was grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, hard enough to rattle a Man’s skull, but to Dwalin they were back to child’s play. He put his own hands over the other’s, signing with their fingers together: < _Peace! > _

The cavern rang with answering laughter, clear as bells and louder than Dwalin’s own. The other dwarf shook him again, more gently now. He signed back on Dwalin’s hands, too quick and obscure for Dwalin to parse at all, but there was no more aggression in it. Then they stood up together, still laughing, and together by touch they dragged the drifting barrels to a dry spot well back from the cave’s opening. There were nine barrels in all, and Dwalin was exhausted in the end. But the port wine had been saved, and that was valuable work in itself. Even if he and his would not profit by it, despite the fighting and the labor, he felt strangely pleased.

“Guess you got the salvage rights,” said Dwalin to his new companion, as they sat panting on the stones.

“Speak the mother tongue,” the other replied in Khuzdul, toneless and rough.

Dwalin coughed self-consciously, rummaging through old-country phrases in his head. He was tired and cold and wet, and totally unprepared for this conversation. “The fruit of the vine is yours,” he tried.

The other dwarf was already signing < _No > _ against Dwalin’s palm. _ <Not here for wine.> _ He hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision, signing: < _Jewels. > _

Dwalin was off laughing again. No competition at all then, as all their family’s jewels had come over with them, and they had no more connections or for that matter the resources to pay for such things. He pulled together some more old-country words, and tried, “We share the fruit of the vine?”

"Yes." The other dwarf laughed with him, then turned briefly away and returned with a cup. Not a wineglass, just a thick ceramic mug. Meanwhile Dwalin rummaged through his own pockets and found, blessed be, an actual and clean wine thief intended for tasting from the barrel. If any of the contents had been ruined in transport, he could dispose of them up here in Salem, and save only the worthy to risk against the law closer to Boston. But the first measure he drew smelled like an old-country summer’s night, and he sloshed a healthy measure of port into the mug with a feeling of hope.

This was a cave, not a winery or a vineyard, so no place for formalities. He took the first sip himself, and the flavors filled his mouth--one moment red fruit, the next a salt-air mineral, then an explosion like a summer’s night in a meadow full of wildflowers. This came from east of the old country, an imported and cherished delicacy even there--Dorwinion, late harvest; the aftertaste sweet like the promise of snow. Dwalin smiled in pure happiness, and pushed the mug into the other dwarf’s waiting hand.

He heard sniffing, the sweet fortified wine rolled in the mug, a soft swallow. This was followed by a low sound somewhere between a moan and a purr, then another swallow. The mug was pressed back into his hands, along with some touch-sign he didn’t quite catch, but presumed to be praise. He took a long, slow sip himself, savoring it, heard himself groan in enjoyment as well. They passed the mug back and forth twice, then the other dwarf held on for a moment, searching through his own things. A waxed-paper packet was pressed into Dwalin’s hands, and he opened it.

It was cram, that old-country ration, although not yet even hard enough to be considered fully cured. It was nearly fluffy between its layers, scented with rosemary and studded in an entirely new-world style with strictly new-world cranberries. Somehow it managed to be simultaneously soldier’s rations and a cookie. Dwalin had never tasted anything he enjoyed more.

“This is great,” he said aloud, “because the Dorwinion’s a dessert wine...” and then he remembered no English, and trailed off. “This is great,” he translated himself back into the old tongue, and left off professional analysis.

 _ <This is great _,> came back the touch-signed reply, clear and careful on Dwalin’s hand, and he was delighted that they understood each other. He only wished he’d been a better student of languages—he’d been a bit too young, leaving, to have been entirely fluent, and was not generally given to academic practice. Balin had been right; there were apparently times he’d regret not applying himself to study.

Right now, though, was no time for sadness of any sort. The port was too good. They finished the cram first and Dwalin refilled the mug, as was only for the best; it was considered most properly a dessert wine.

By the time they had finished that, Dwalin could hear the waves licking against the ragged stone that edged their dry perch. “The tides must have come in,” he observed. He was in no wise comfortable with that; would they be stuck there for six hours, or twelve, or—he couldn’t really remember how the tides were timed, honestly. Or were they still rising, might they possibly be drowned?

The other dwarf took his hand, signing gently, < _About one bell, > _ Dwalin parsed that as old army talk, three hours, < _until you should leave. Too much water now, too low later. I have a boat tied behind this >\--_Dwalin couldn’t parse the next bit at all, but fortunately caught up again with- < _floating out your barrels. Want to wrestle again while we wait?_ > The last had a lightness to it, like a joke.

“Thanks, yes, thanks,” he managed in the old-world language, and then the other was on top of him. Dwalin was used to being stronger and better trained, especially living among Men; here he was definitely of lesser experience. They rolled about on the rocky ledge, each strong enough to lift and toss the other.

Dwalin’s boot splashed in the water, and there was a break while they stopped to move closer to the cave wall, and then a longer one while Dwalin took off both boots and socks and hung them (with perhaps more hope than justice) on the rough wall to dry. Then they were wrestling again, grappling harder now, hands pushing into hair, shoving one another bodily around their small arena. Dwalin was on top when he realized he was as hard as he’d been in his life, his hammer pressing into the softness of his companion’s belly just above the belt, and was trying to figure out if he was embarrassed when his mouth was taken in a hard, savage kiss.

“Yes?” the word echoed, the old-language word that Dwalin had just lately said himself.

He ran his fingers through the other fighter’s beard to his neck, and signed clearly and carefully, with both hands together: < _Yes. > _ A formal expression came almost unbidden: < _For this I pray unto thee. > _

His companion laughed aloud, joyful and deep, and Dwalin reveled in the sound as the other dwarf arched up underneath him, clasping his shoulders. For a moment it was almost as if they were still wrestling, except where their mouths held together, teeth and tongues in delicious, sensual play. Then Dwalin found himself flipped onto his back and divested of his clothes. The heat of a mouth on his bare chest made him gasp, and he shivered between that and the chill of stone on his back.

They spent hours that way, or so it seemed to Dwalin, in drunken, sensual touch. They were both jeweled, the other dwarf's hammer set with a liquid-smooth white opal that Dwalin sucked as though it could quench his thirst, his own with a clear diamond that the stranger teased with strong, careful fingers. Sometimes it came near to fighting again as they played strength against strength. Other times it was strangely intimate, being with someone he’d never met, who he could not see in the darkness, and whose name he did not know how to ask—but he could draw out groans of passion and the occasional ring of laughter. He came twice, and they shared another mug of excellent port.

Then the other dwarf fell asleep at his side. They were naked on cold stone, pressed together for pleasure and warmth as well, when Dwalin’s soldier’s sense told him: one bell of time had passed.

He extracted himself carefully. The stranger snored on, and Dwalin decided not to disturb him. As quietly as possible, he found some clothes (probably mostly his own, although he thought his vest had been a better fit) and dressed; the endless sound of seawater hid the scrape of wooden barrels lifted into the raft. In the end he left with everything he had hoped to come for, taken up from the cave and tucked neatly into the trunk of his car.

When he tied the boat up again, he wished for his brother’s skills with knotwork—it would have been gratifying to leave a proper token of thanks—but in the end he left only a small bottle of wine, filled from the barrel they'd sampled. He bent down to kiss the boat’s owner, and received a sleepy purr in reward. Then it was a long drive back to Winter Hill in the early morning light, minding his speed in all the little coastal towns. And that was the end of it.

Until now.

* * *

Dwalin didn't have time to get lost in memory while Fili looked to him for support. Though he spoke Khuzdul at home, and was more fluent than many children of the new world, there was still some vocabulary Fili didn't know for commissioning a work of the crafts. Dwalin, who had pleased his elder brother no end by taking very seriously to the study of traditional languages in recent years, could translate when needed. He would also make sure they came to a fair agreement that pleased all parties.

Bifur served them little glasses of cherry cordial, sweet with only the barest hint of forbidden alcohol to warm them, as they went over Fili's plans.

Lady Dis had only one piece left of her grandmother's jewels—a single pearl earring whose mate was long lost. Fili, thoughtful lad that he was, had taken a mind to commission a decorative case so it could be displayed in a place of honor instead of hidden away in a jewelry box.

Dwalin was proud of Fili for the kindness of the plan, and for the painstaking care he'd taken in executing it. He had made detailed drawings of the earring in question, with its exact dimensions and materials noted down fit for a draftsman. He had a few ideas of his own, but was more than willing to bow to Bifur's expertise in choosing the final design of the case.

"I thought it could be something like this." Fili pulled one final page out to show Bifur, what looked like a rubbing with neat material notes beside it.

Bifur brightened immediately, saying, “My own work!”

Fili nodded. “My uncle, Thorin, commissioned you for this decorative knife sheath years ago. I thought the display case would look good beside it, if they matched?"

"Of course," Bifur agreed. "Not identical, but designed with similar themes..." he trailed off as he began sketching options. A few he crossed out as soon as they were down. "It must _accent_ the earring, not overpower it."

Fili was not shy about pointing out things he liked about the different options, his enthusiasm and Bifur's feeding off each other. They settled on an understated but lovely pattern of silver and enamel, and Bifur had an idea for a set of tiny mirrors that would make it appear that there was a pair of earrings side by side in the case when viewed at the correct angle.

They wouldn't be dwarves without a love of beauty and a joy in crafting. Of course, once the design was chosen, there was the tricky challenge of settling a price and writing the contract. Fili was well trained for his age—he had been watching Dis haggle from a sling against her chest, and she was a true expert, but he remained a little lacking in practical experience. Still, Dwalin was there to offer a word here and there, to remind Fili what arguments he could employ and push for a truly equitable agreement.

They were near done when Fili signed to Dwalin, beneath the edge of the table and so invisible to Bifur, < _should we offer product to cover the debt?_ > Clever lad. He knew the trade value of the alcohol was worth more than they paid for it themselves.

< _Yes,_ > Dwalin signed back, and leaned forward to join the conversation. "You know our family business," he said, no beating around the bush. "Maybe we can come to an agreement, a trade." It was a double benefit if they could secure Bifur's custom, simultaneously earning another distributor and reducing their competition.

Mannish bootleggers might actually become a force to contend with instead of a minor irritation if they ever learned that kind of foresight and cooperation, instead of leaning on nothing but backstabbing and violence. Dwalin wasn't going to hold his breath for _that_.

Bifur's eyes twinkled, pleased with the new development in the negotiations. "Maybe, maybe. I sometimes deliver to a few select clients, highest quality only. If you think you can provide?"

"Absolutely." Fili's chest puffed up a bit in pride. "There's no one better this side of the Atlantic. The genuine article, authentic, top shelf anywhere in the world.”

Dwalin knew there were arguments to be made for the Ri brothers' distillery, alcohols made in the old style right here in the city, (and quite the little annoyance their runner, Nori, was) but as far as imports went there was no one better than Thorin's gang.

"Good!" Bifur scrawled on the contract. "Here, we will add a line—payment to be made in cash or goods. Yes?" The wording was acceptable, and at Dwalin's nod, Fili accepted it. Bifur smiled at Dwalin. "Will you bring by samples? We could negotiate the exact split over supper, tomorrow?"

"Aye." Dwalin was eager to agree to that, after only a brief moment of thought to be sure he had no preexisting appointments. Bifur's eyebrows briefly rose slightly, and Dwalin dearly hoped that was the invitation he thought it looked like.

The contract was finalized quickly, after that, and they all three put their signatures on it. Fili was brimming with enthusiasm and satisfaction in a job well done—his first major contract as he came of age, done nearly on his own—and Dwalin eager for his own reasons.

It was a frustration that they could not speak freely, not with young Fili nearby, but Dwalin managed to sign a single word into Bifur's hand as they got their coats. < _Anticipation._ >

Bifur only smiled, rich and dangerous, and answered with another wordless coaxing caress that made Dwalin warm below his belly, and gave him hope.

Out in the store front, Lari proved to be a handsome woman with tight curls bound in thick braids, leaning on a cane. Dwalin and Fili gave her polite but perfunctory greetings, ready to be on their way. Bifur immediately went to her, an arm around her waist as he leaned in to kiss her cheek. He signed something into her palm. Dwalin thought he caught the shape of 'diamond'.

Lari turned a knowing look on Dwalin, deep brown eyes sparkling to match Bifur's. Dwalin was glad that the red of his face as he left could be attributed to the icy wind blowing down Winter Hill.

* * *

Dwalin dressed to impress. It was too cold out for a pretty dress to be comfortable, but a well-fitted suit (and one he filled out well) looked just as good. He was fresh-washed, and smelled faintly of cedarwood soap. His thick hair and beard were oiled, brushed, and gleaming. The rubies in his ears and his hair and twinkling in his eyebrow—fierce and fiery—matched the embroidered detail on his neatly pressed waistcoat. His heavy black boots were polished to a high shine.

He had a feeling that Bifur, with his eye for detail, would appreciate the care he'd taken dressing, even if his hope was to end the evening without a stitch of it on.

Dwalin completed the outfit with a long fur coat, and of course a heavy briefcase containing bottle after bottle of alcohols—the highest end of the products they moved. They were small samples, for the most part, save only a full-sized bottle of the Dorwinion that had unforgettably begun the affair.

Bifur greeted Dwalin in his toy store with a clap to both shoulders and a smoldering look up and down his body. Dwalin was swept upstairs into a warm and comfortable set of apartments. Lari was setting the table, and Bifur pulled a fragrant roasting pan out of the oven. Supper was a crisp-skinned roast duck with mushrooms and potatoes, and dessert was a rich cake trifle from a local bakery.

Lingering over coffee and dessert was the perfect time to break out the liquor. Bifur provided little decorative cups, and Dwalin served out his samples in tiny splashes just enough to get a feel for each one. Oak-aged brandies, warm whiskeys, peaty scotch, both sipping vodka and vodka perfect for cordial-making that had Bifur and Lari smiling fondly when Dwalin mentioned it, and more.

Lari cooed over the sweet limoncello, and promptly stole the entire bottle to tuck into the voluminous pocket of her sensible wool skirt. "My sewing circle ladies will love this," she declared, and Dwalin simply nodded and added the value of the bottle to the coded page he and Bifur were writing up as Bifur chose which liquors, and how much, and when he wanted them delivered for his payment.

Bifur's alcohol operation was clearly very small, second fiddle to his toyshop and fine craftwork. He didn't want too much inventory at any one time, save for holidays. Still, he would likely make a pretty penny off it, delivering to his select clients.

The haggling was pleasant, with good alcohol, good food, and good company, and most especially with Bifur's foot toying with Dwalin's beneath the table. If Bifur intended to get a good deal by distracting Dwalin, he did not seem in the slightest put out that Dwalin argued the exact value of every bottle as strenuously as ever—even with every teasing touch and heated look sending arousal pulsing pleasantly in his groin.

Dwalin saved the Dorwinion for last. Bifur chuckled, warm and dangerous, when Dwalin set the bottle on the table. The alcohol they'd already consumed so far was only enough to warm the belly—Dwalin made eye contact with Bifur as he pulled the cork free and poured them each a generous measure of fragrant fortified wine.

He offered some to Lari as well, but she waved him off, pushing away from the table. "I'm off. Got places to be."

Dwalin clinked glasses with Bifur, and they sipped the thick liquor together. It was every bit as good to share from crystal cups as it was to pass a mug back and forth in a smuggler's cave. Better, even, to be able to watch the other savor it.

Lari equipped herself with boots, coat, and cane. She came back to the table to steal the cup from Bifur's hand, tasted it, nodded, then tipped his face up to kiss him deeply and thoroughly. "I'll see you in the morning, love," she promised, soft against his lips, and then straightened to encompass them both in a fond look, eyes sparkling. "Enjoy yourselves."

With that, she was gone, tipping her hat to them on the way out. When Dwalin looked back at Bifur, face warm, it was to see that he'd taken the chance to move much closer. Dwalin quirked an eyebrow, lifting his glass to take another sip, curious what Bifur would do.

What happened is that Bifur reached up, brushing the jewels that adorned Dwalin's ears, his beard. "Ruby-studded warrior," he murmured, low and gravelly. Then his infinitely-skilled fingers dug into Dwalin's beard, the intimacy of it shocking a gasp from him, so when Bifur tugged him forward he met Bifur's hot mouth in an open kiss.

It was a miracle Dwalin did not spill the port in his haste to set the cup down and instead occupy his hands with Bifur. Bifur was every bit as solid and powerful beneath Dwalin's hands as he'd remembered, a great joy to feel, and his kisses messy and confident.

Dwalin made to stand, some half-formed plan in mind, but as soon as he was not firmly ensconced in his chair Bifur grabbed him by the hips and pulled him down to straddle the other dwarf in his. Any plan Dwalin had been intending was entirely forgotten, the strength needed to manhandle him that way thrilling him to his core.

"Rough diamond," Bifur breathed, reaching between them to take hold of Dwalin's hard hammer and thumb at the big jewel that adorned it.

Dwalin moaned and rutted shamelessly into the squeeze of Bifur's clever hand through his trousers. Their tongues touched and tangled as their lips slid together. "Please," Dwalin groaned, in the brief space between kisses, and then more sensibly as he caught his breath. "How would you like me?" He would take this, and happily, but he _had_ been hoping for something a little more sophisticated.

Bifur hummed a thoughtful sound, drawing back from the kiss and making a show of picking up his glass of Dorwinion to sip, even though his pupils were wide and dark with arousal and his hammer hot and hard against Dwalin's thigh.

"We had no supplies, last time," Bifur finally said, groping Dwalin's thigh and then around to his arse, fingers pressing meaningfully into his crease. "I would give myself into you."

Dwalin shuddered through, and pushed back against Bifur's fingers eagerly. "Aye," he growled. Then he took the glass from Bifur's hand and downed the last of the port in it in a single long swallow, to give him no excuse for more extended teasing.

Bifur laughed, and lifted Dwalin off his lap to lead him further through the apartment.

The bedroom was small and dim, the bed generously sized and neatly made with plenty of pillows and a corner turned down invitingly. Bifur began undoing his shirt buttons as soon as they were in it, and Dwalin followed suit. They made quick work of their clothes. In but a moment they were both bare. Bifur wrapped his arms around Dwalin, meeting his mouth in a soft kiss, and then with a powerful heave upended him onto the bed.

Dwalin laughed as Bifur pounced on him, and immediately they were grappling. Dwalin got the upper hand for the briefest moment, pinning Bifur in the pillows, before Bifur flipped them again to be on top. It felt good to test his strength against Bifur's, tussling in the blankets, and every bit as good to feel the heat of Bifur's skin against his own, to thrust his hammer against Bifur's thighs or belly as they went and feel Bifur doing the same.

The warmth of the alcohol and the good meal had Dwalin feeling pleasantly loose and generous. When Bifur got between his legs and bent him double, pinning his shoulders flat to the bed, Dwalin relaxed and allowed himself to be pinned rather than continuing the match.

Bifur rumbled an approving sound and adjusted Dwalin's leg more comfortably over his broad shoulder. They kissed for a time, with growing urgency, breath hot and fast, Dwalin's hands in Bifur's thick black-and-white hair, or digging into his back and shoulders to urge him on. Bifur released Dwalin's mouth and bent to his chest, sucking and pulling at his paps until Dwalin was writhing shamelessly.

"There," Bifur gestured toward the bedside table. "Can you reach the tin with your long arms?"

Dwalin stretched out, shifted over just a tiny bit, and managed to snag the indicated tin. He popped the lid off and the smell surprised him — not the expected petroleum jelly, but something thinner and softer, with a spicy perfume that spoke unmistakably of the old country. He paused for a moment in appreciative surprise, then handed it to Bifur with great eagerness. Bifur coated his fingers liberally, and reached between Dwalin's legs with his eyebrows raised in question.

"Aye," Dwalin urged, spreading himself as much as he could. "Aye, come on."

There were things to be said about the fingers of a great craftsman, the skill and confidence of someone who worked with the fiddliest and most delicate mechanisms. Dwalin found no words to describe them, too taken up with the _feeling_. He was slicked and opened with expert attention, his cock stroked and his stones fondled at the same time. All the while the scent surrounded them, complementing Bifur’s own musk and sweat like Dorwinion had done with dessert. Dwalin’s head spun.

"All right, hurry it along," he said, sooner than he wanted to. "You'll bring me off before you can get in me."

Bifur chuckled. "You want my hammer now?"

Dwalin would have flipped them over and sat on the hammer in question to prove just how much he did indeed want it now, had Bifur not slicked himself with a quick stroke and shifted to press the thick head of his hammer into Dwalin's entrance.

It was a stretch, made smooth and easy with the slippery lube. Dwalin finally knew within himself the almost-liquid slide of the white opal set in Bifur's hammer that he had first felt in his hands and in his mouth in the sea-cave dark. It rewarded a kind of greed he had not quite realized he felt, and his thighs trembled around Bifur's body even as he lifted his hands to Bifur’s chest, feeling for his paps and his heartbeat. Bifur moved slowly, gently, until Dwalin was rising to meet each thrust, drawing Bifur in, savoring the stone and the scent and his partner’s heavy, solid body upon him.

Their pace grew, in the push and pull, into a hard fast pound that neither could withstand for long. They matched each other cry for cry, strength for strength, energy for energy; each giving just as good as he got. When Bifur bit Dwalin's paps again, squeezing his hammer at the same time, Dwalin tumbled over the edge of orgasm with a long shaking moan. His arse clenched on the hard hammer inside him, his spend spattering over his belly. Bifur followed close after, with a few hard thrusts almost too much for Dwalin's oversensitized body and then a handful of bucking jolts as he spent into him.

They lay there for a time, Dwalin's arms and legs wrapped around Bifur to hold him, enjoying the feel of the closeness, until Bifur's softening hammer slipped free of his arse and Bifur lifted himself away. Dwalin pulled him back for a slow, lazy kiss, which Bifur gave him easily, and then Bifur got them moistened cloths to clean up.

They cuddled up together beneath the blankets when they were done, trading soft touches and gentle kisses with no urgency behind them. Bifur came to rest with his head on Dwalin's shoulder, one hand between Dwalin's legs possessively cradling his spent sex. Dwalin decided he liked it there. It felt intimate to be held that way, and he was pleasantly sleepy; the doubled rewards of orgasm and alcohol.

"Should I go?" Dwalin asked muzzily, when he realized he was drifting off. "Will Lari be needing the bed?"

Bifur shook his shaggy head, a little laugh rumbling in his chest. "No, she's off with her lady love tonight, and having as much fun as we are. Stay."

Dwalin yawned, and pressed a kiss to the knotted scar on Bifur's forehead. "All right, then," he agreed, easily. There was nowhere else he would rather be for the night.

* * *

Dwalin found Thorin going over the account books, and sat on the corner of his desk as he handed over the coded page of Bifur's order. "Bifur the toymaker," he said. "Small operation, but he'll be delivering our stock now."

"Ah." Thorin nodded, pleased, and rose up to knock foreheads with Dwalin. "Well done! How did you manage to rope him in?"

"It was Fili." Dwalin would not take credit where it was due elsewhere. Dwalin dropped his voice low, secretive, "Commissioned him for Dis—and suggested we pay in product. Went down like a charm."

"A risky move," Thorin said.

Dwalin shook his head. "I've crossed paths with Bifur before. He's a good dwarf, reliable. Loyal to the old ways."

There was a slow smile growing on Thorin's face. He took hold of Dwalin's collar, tugging it just a bit to the side, where it apparently had not been completely concealing the love-bite he'd earned as a token in his and Bifur's enthusiastic morning round.

"That kind of _good_ , is he?" Thorin teased, brushing his thumb over the tender spot before taking mercy and adjusting Dwalin's collar to hide it.

Dwalin grinned back and nodded, even with his face gone hot, and then returned to the important part of the conversation. "Fili asked my counsel about offering trade, I knew it was safe. He's going to make a great heir for you."

"Aye," Thorin agreed, proud. "Aye, we'll see to it he is, with good Dwarves around him to lend their aid and support."

"He'll have them," Dwalin promised. The little empire they were building on Winter Hill was a secure foundation, with luck to last for many generations in the new world, and by grace to preserve the treasures of the old.

**Author's Note:**

> FIN
> 
> Comments are love <3


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